“I want you all,” he babbled.
All the muscles in my body tensioned and tightened when Renato slid his tongue inside me. Still on tip-toes, I pushed myself upward, willing to find the perfect angle for his face to fit in my ass. But his lips, his tongue, made me shake and shiver and scream inside. I brought my hips up and down and back and forth while he painted my openings with his tongue.
It was as if I was fighting a battle against him. At every suck he gave I reacted with a jolt, a jerk or a wiggle proper of a fencer dodging a sword lunge. He held me still with both hands, teasing my clit.
It was when my breathing reached the peak of my lungs, cramps in my calves, that wave of pure passion, a turmoil of tightening and loosening in my joints, seized up my body. Right in Renato’s face.
“Oh . . . shit . . . what have you done?” I grunted, feeling a power, a release of tension, a blast of bliss.
I slacked my legs and let my body sprawl on the table. I gathered my remaining strength and tried to retake control of my body.
Renato pulled his head away.
“Porra . . .” he said, his hands still squeezing my sore ass.
Ignoring my wobbly knees, I pushed myself up straight and turned around, barely able to breathe and struggling on the edge of the table to sustain my weight on my feet. This time, Renato’s hands allowed me to move. It was my turn to make him come with the same intensity, the same rawness, that he had given me.
Before I could act, I found him knelt down on the floor, one of his hands clasped at the border of the table to help with his balance, the other one stroking his cock. His face tilted upward, eyes shut, he groaned and moaned in a wave of pleasure.
“Have you—”
“Fuck yes,” he said, “along with you.”
“But . . . how’s that even possible?”
“Your taste, Emily. Your fucking beautiful taste,” he said, stroking his cock, willing to push out one more drop of his essence.
Chapter 14
To someone who had spent last night in one of the most expensive rooms in Rio de Janeiro, Grandma Norma’s sofa turned out to be a graceful piece of foam that was nothing like Praia Palace’s bedrooms. No marvelous tapestry, no exquisite scents, no flattering from clerks and no free Caipirinha—which I was yet to taste—but I had Renato’s touch all over me inside that cement building. His touch surpassed even the Angel’s Touch bedsheets.
Before opening my eyes, I noticed the bright early morning sun coming through the window. Renato had laid down on the sofa beside me, but I knew he was already gone. I didn’t feel his legs curled around mine anymore.
Strange noises woke me up. The smell of freshly prepared coffee and the sunny sky, composed the picture of a great day about to start. I felt my body renewed, my mind cleared. But when Renato tugged at my shoulders, his strong hands lacking the caresses of last night, and pulled me up, I saw hell in his eyes.
“Come on, we gotta go!” He said.
A muffled chatter came from outside, the sound of doors slamming shut, of motorcycle engines speeding up, and fireworks exploding. A chaotic combination of noises which might have resembled a festive day—if not for the terrifying shouts of men, women, and kids.
Then I heard gunshots.
“What is going on?” I asked.
Renato was putting on his shoes. I had slept in my panties after taking a shower inside a shower stall where I couldn’t turn around lest being wrapped in its plastic curtains, but I had slept clean.
“A police force is coming. We gotta leave now,” Renato said .
“How do you know they’re coming?”
“Fireworks. Slum sentries set them off whenever the police begin pushing uphill. There are some minor drug dealers living in Gloria Santa, but I believe the police are here for another reason.”
I put on my jeans, my head still drowsy after being jerked awake. I tried to absorb all of the details around me.
“Are they coming here because of me?” I asked. I hoped my situation was improving after last night.
Renato got up, fully dressed, and rummaged for something inside a kitchen drawer. Grandma Norma had her belly against the kitchen sink and a hand on the crutch. She had just finished filtering a bottle of coffee.
“There is a chance they are here for you.”
Renato reassured me that we were safe inside his grandma’s house. But whenever I thought of my safety, images of the distrustful stares and unfriendly eyes I received when entering the slum flashed through my mind.
Maybe someone had reported me to Paulo Pinto and Roberto Rôla. Maybe that’s how they had assembled a force to arrest me.
Another burst of gunshots popped in the sky. Then, a new round of fireworks fired off from the highest grounds of the Gloria Santa slum.
The chaotic din of feet scurrying up steps, and windows sliding shut over rusty wheels echoed, giving way to a new set of sounds that loomed in the distance. The organized march of a band that hammered their batons against shields and shouted police chants to bolster their confidence.
Renato kissed his grandma, I waved goodbye, we trudged down the steps to the ground floor. He opened the iron door, craned his neck, looked at both sides of the street, and pulled me out.
I was prepared to go down the steps and back to the gas station at the foot of the hill, but instead, Renato went the opposite direction, climbing to the highest parts of the slum.
I followed behind, our hands clasped together, despite sensing strangers’ eyes
